Hope in a Box
by MagsyB
Summary: House reflects on Pandora and the fact that she shut the box before she let hope out. ANGST. House/Cameron. Ficlet.


**AN**: This was written awhile back, and thought I would post it here. I hope you enjoy.

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**Hope in a Box**

It was such a small inconsequential thing that left such a tornado in its wake that he couldn't help but think of Pandora's box.

It wasn't a story he often drudged up to the forefront of his thoughts. It was just another lesson to put away in the back of his mind, more knowledge to store away. He had found it comforting in knowing everything he could know about everything, but now all he could think about was Pandora and her stupid damn box.

The most disturbing part about the whole ordeal, was just like in the story of Pandora, no one seemed to even care to remember the small things. Like the color of her hair as the afternoon light would flood her features, or the way her eyes seemed to shine just slightly more when she smiled with true mirth.

The irony, that in the story, the catalyst was immaterial to the story of Pandora herself, was not lost on House either. For Pandora, it was Prometheus' theft of fire that brought about the undoing of mankind. It was a car accident brought to the ER that unraveled him.

It was so trivial, so unimportant, so fucking idiotically insignificant that it hurt. He felt the sharp tightening in his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to feel, not to give in. It was easier to think of Pandora then the truth at hand.

The best re-telling of the story of Pandora's box, he could remember, was from a young bard in Egypt when he was 12. He remembered her saying how men would never call Pandora by her given name, because it helped them to distance themselves. It made it easier to think of her as Pandora than Anesidora, a beautiful woman that captured the heart of many.

It was easier to think of her as Cameron. Allison was the woman who he was lost to, only too late. Allison brought about emotions too intense, too intimate for him to even try to process. And so, it was easier to think of her as Cameron.

Pandora, just like Cameron, possessed many gifts. An ability to evoke such powerful feelings that it left one breathless if one were to stay too long in their presence. Pandora's gifts were from the gods. They were to be cherished and protected. Cameron's seemed innate, an almost unnatural ability to make even the hardest stone sway under her powerful thrall. She had made him sway, and he craved the chance to show her that she moved him. But now... it all seemed so trite.

A box. A stupid fucking damn box. A box that in actuality was a jar: a jar so small that one in today's time would think it to be reminiscent of a bottle of lotion or shampoo left in a hotel bathroom. Something so small, so fucking small, but yet so unforgivably destructive.

Much like a piece of glass. So small, that she never noticed it had pierced her skin, one small sliver of a line where sharp edges met soft skin so lightly, it was like a phantom whispering in the light wind.

How he wished now that he could find that stupid jar and smash it open. Let hope float out like a healing balm amongst the chaos and death it had previously held. He looked out the window as if he could somehow pinpoint the exact location that hope was hiding, like a ridiculous game of hide-and-seek. A game he so desired to win. So passionately dreamed he could win that it made him ache as if his very bones would crumble under the pressure of it all.

It was the cowardice of man that had locked hope away. It was his own cowardice that made him lock up his heart. He was so afraid of the unwelcome emotions she always evoked, that he was afraid to see where the pain would lead him, afraid it would lead to hope; to hope that she had never stopped loving him.

He refused to acknowledge the mutinous tear that tracked down his weathered cheek. Closing his eyes, he thought of her feather light touch tracing along the same path. He thought of it as a lover's caress, before her lips would have pressed against his in a lazy and languid motion as if they would have all the time in the world to memorize each other's taste.

He hates to imagine that the last taste in her mouth had been blood; that her last moments were by herself, alone. She had stubbornly told the ER that she was simply nursing a flu; that she just needed to take it easy for a few days.

She should have... she should have done a lot of things, but then so should have he. Perhaps then, he wouldn't have regretted never giving her a lingering kiss, a gentle stroke across her porcelain cheek, a lazy smile meant just for her. But it was too late. Pandora's box was opened, and with it a myriad of sickness that lead to her death. And hope? Hope was nowhere to be found. Hope was being buried in a coffin he couldn't bare to face. Hope was in a stupid fucking box.

**FIN**


End file.
